Memory.
Memory of your mother
rolling pastry
and you watching
her hands
and the rolling pin
and the way the pastry
was pushed down
and out
and then she took
the pastry
and put it over a dish
and spooned in
the cooked beef
and onions
and then placed another
rolled out piece
of pastry on top
and forked down
the edges of the pastry
and she said
do you want
the end clippings?
and you said
sure why not
and she gave you
the clipped off pasty
raw in your hands
and you began to eat
noticing how red
and raw and worn
her fingers
and hands were
and how tired
her eyes looked
and wiping hair
from her eyes
with the back
of her floured hand
she pushed out a sigh
and you saw there
how a thousand dreams
of young girls die.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Critics are like pigs at the pastry cart.
quote by John Updike
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Beef Wellington
Crisp is the crust flaked,
Surrounding the tenderloin sweeten meat.
That has been liver patéd...
With onion and mushroom,
Within this pastry doughed to eat.
And after heating in the oven,
Buttered and cooled...
This beef wellington's a treat!
When eaten is so hard to overrule.
And if you're using red wine,
The time to dine will find your guests...
Converted into hooked,
Finger licking lip smacking believers!
'That' they will confess.
When the stomach is delighted,
A joy lights up the eyes.
And never leave them.
With a taste of wellington,
The tongues of more than one will want..
Repeaters.
Of this good beefy meat...
Cooked to satisfy and treat.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Café
The ladies at the table next to mine
are window-shopping the mortician's display
with the taste of sweet cream
from a mouthful of pastry
poem by Mikael Ejdemyr
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Greedy Richard
'I THINK I want some pies this morning,'
Said Dick, stretching himself and yawning;
So down he threw his slate and books,
And saunter'd to the pastry-cook's.
And there he cast his greedy eyes
Round on the jellies and the pies,
So to select, with anxious care,
The very nicest that was there.
At last the point was thus decided:
As his opinion was divided
'Twixt pie and jelly, being loth
Either to leave, he took them both.
Now Richard never could be pleased
To stop when hunger was appeased,
But would go on to eat still more
When he had had an ample store.
'No, not another now,' said Dick;
'Dear me, I feel extremely sick:
I cannot even eat this bit;
I wish I had not tasted it. '
Then slowing rising from his seat,
He threw his cheesecake in the street,
And left the tempting pastry-cook's
With very discontented looks.
Just then a man with wooden leg
Met Dick, and held his hat to beg;
And while he told his mournful case,
Look'd at him with imploring face.
Dick, wishing to relieve his pain,
His pockets search'd, but search'd in vain;
And so at last he did declare,
He had not left a farthing there.
The beggar turn'd with face of grief,
And look of patient unbelief,
While Richard now his folly blamed,
And felt both sorry and ashamed.
'I wish,' said he (but wishing's vain),
'I had my money back again,
And had not spent my last, to pay
For what I only threw away.
'Another time, I'll take advice,
And not buy things because they're nice;
But rather save my little store,
To give to those who want it more. '
poem by Ann Taylor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Greedy Richard
"I think I want some pies this morning,"
Said Dick, stretching himself and yawning;
So down he threw his slate and books,
And saunter'd to the pastry-cook's.
And there he cast his greedy eyes
Round on the jellies and the pies,
So to select, with anxious care,
The very nicest that was there.
At last the point was thus decided:
As his opinion was divided
'Twixt pie and jelly, being loth
Either to leave, he took them both.
Now Richard never could be pleased
To stop when hunger was appeased,
But would go on to eat still more
When he had had an ample store.
"No, not another now," said Dick;
"Dear me, I feel extremely sick:
I cannot even eat this bit;
I wish I had not tasted it. "
Then slowing rising from his seat,
He threw his cheesecake in the street,
And left the tempting pastry-cook's
With very discontented looks.
Just then a man with wooden leg
Met Dick, and held his hat to beg;
And while he told his mournful case,
Look'd at him with imploring face.
Dick, wishing to relieve his pain,
His pockets search'd, but search'd in vain;
And so at last he did declare,
He had not left a farthing there.
The beggar turn'd with face of grief,
And look of patient unbelief,
While Richard now his folly blamed,
And felt both sorry and ashamed.
"I wish," said he (but wishing's vain),
"I had my money back again,
And had not spent my last, to pay
For what I only threw away.
"Another time, I'll take advice,
And not buy things because they're nice;
But rather save my little store,
To give to those who want it more."
poem by Jane Taylor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
On A Fortification At Boston Begun By Women
A Grand attempt some Amazonian Dames
Contrive whereby to glorify their names,
A Ruff for Boston Neck of mud and turfe,
Reaching from side to side from surfe to surfe,
Their nimble hands spin up like Christmas pyes,
Their pastry by degrees on high doth rise.
The wheel at home counts it an holiday,
Since while the Mistris worketh it may play.
A tribe of female hands, but manly hearts
Forsake at home their pasty-crust and tarts
To knead the dirt, the samplers down they hurle,
Their undulating silks they closely furle.
The pick-axe one as a Commandress holds,
While t'other at her awkness gently scolds.
One puffs and sweats, the other mutters why
Cant you promove your work so fast as I?
Some dig, some delve, and others hands do feel
The little waggons weight with single wheel.
And least some fainting fits the weak surprize,
They want no sack nor cakes, they are more wise.
These brave essayes draw forth Male stronger hands
More like to Dawbers then to Martial bands:
These do the work, and sturdy bulwarks raise,
But the beginners well deserve the praise.
poem by Benjamin Tompson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Bogus Floaters
Bogus floaters rise like puff pastry.
The texture is a bit flaky and overdone with yeast.
But as long as the center sustains a sweetness,
Who today would care there is a lacking of substance?
None at its core to eat that keeps this stuff puffed up,
And above that which does maintain a taste...
To be acclaimed as credible.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
All in a Day's Work
One or two pieces of candy
A few potato chips
A spoonful of rocky road ice cream
Going past my lips
A sliver of apple pie
To see if it tastes as it should
A morsel of a cookie
Just to make sure it is good
A bite of chocolate cake
Two nibbles of a pastry roll
I don't think of this as snacking
For me, it's quality control
©2006
And The Money Kept Rolling In (And Out)
Che: And the money kept rolling in from every side
Eva's pretty hands reached out and they reached wide
Now you may feel it should have been a voluntary cause
But that's not the point my friends
When the money keeps rolling in you don't ask how
Think of all the people guaranteed a good time now
Eva's called the hungry to her open up the doors
Never been a fund like the Foundation Eva Peron
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling on in rolling on in rolling on in rolling on in on in
Would you like to try a college education
Own your landlord's house take the family on vacation
Eva and her blessed fund can make your dreams come true
Here's all you have to do my friends
Write your name and your dream on a card or a pad or a ticket
Throw it high into the air and should our lady pick it
She will change your way of life for a week or even two
Name me anyone who cares as much as Eva Peron
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling on out rolling on out rolling on out rolling on out on out
And the money kept rolling out in all directions
To the poor to the weak to the destitute of all complexions
Now cynics claim a little of the cash has gone astray
But that's not the point my friends
When the money keeps rolling out you don't keep books
You can tell you've done well by the happy grateful looks
Accountants only slow things down figures get in the way
Never been a lady loved as much as Eva Peron
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling on out rolling on out rolling on out rolling on out on out
Eva
When the money keeps rolling out you don't keep books
You can tell you've done well by the happy grateful looks
Accountants only slow things down figures get in the way
Never been a lady loved as much as Eva Peron
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling rolling rolling
Rolling on out rolling on out rolling on out rolling on out on out
song performed by by Madonna from Evita Soundtrack (Part 2)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Life Is A Mystery
Life is a mystery for all those who don't understand it,
and meaningful for those who enjoys it,
and it's history for all.
Husband is a banker, wife is a locker,
children are currency,
every thing urgency.
Wife is a baker, husband is a pastry,
children are cookies, friends are candies
poem by Naga Bhanu Vemuri
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Just Desserts
The desserts are so lovely
I don't mind having the pastry
The custard looks heavenly
The chocolate well, chocolaty!
Everything looks so tasty.
Where do I start, firstly
The apple pie so crispy
The jam tart so crumbly
The custard I'll eat slowly
Finish the chocolate finally.
That's too much calorie!
Well I live dangerously,
Enjoy the food heartily,
And it's harmless poetry.
The Baker
I'd like to be a baker, and come when morning breaks,
Calling out, 'Beeay-ko!' (that's the sound he makes)
Riding in a rattle-cart that jogs and jolts and shakes,
Selling all the sweetest things a baker ever bakes;
Currant-buns and brandy-snaps, pastry all in flakes;
But I wouldn't be a baker if ...
I couldn't eat the cakes.
Would you?
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Best place 2 be
If I would go to a place, where would I be?
I could go Paris, full of artistic scenery
Or maybe to Japan, the land of all ye “anime buddy”
I could go to China, gateway to the”forbidden city”
Or went to Italy, and eat lots of pasta and pastry…
I could go to USA, home of “kingdom Disney”
Or just swim through the borders of Hawaii
Whatever place, whatever scenery I went and see,
I’d always return to the place, were I could be “Me” in deep serenity
poem by Kaizer Phanton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Failed Musician
Failed Musician?
My uncle died, he was on holiday in Piraeus when a pig fell off
a balcony, he left a piano and since his wife didn’t want it in her
house, mother took it, only because it would lend an impression
of high culture, and no one else in our neighbourhood had one.
I played on it day and night, picked up tunes on radio and played
them on the piano; people where impressed, mother too, but she
needed her rest worked long hours at a canning factory; one day,
coming home from school, a big empty space, I cried mother gave
me Danish pastry, they were a day old but still tasty. I’m glad she
sold the piano, though I might have ended up a restaurant pianist
driving from town to town playing evergreens as background music
for bored diners
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Phone Gift
Cedric gave you a photograph
in the playground
making sure no one
was looking his way first
Christina said to give you this
he said
you took the photograph
and gazed at a picture
of a girl laughing
with dark hair
looking at the camera
in mid pose
thanks
you said
putting the photo
in the inside pocket
of your jacket
she said she'd meet you
on the playing field lunchtime
Cedric informed
unimpressed
ok thanks
you said
to Cedric's departing back
at lunchtime
after eating your sandwiches
and fruitcake
your mother had made
and the watered-down juice
you went to the playing field
and looked for Christina
amongst the hordes
of boys and girls
basking in the sun
or playing ball
then hands covered your eyes
and a voice said
guess who?
you said
Marilyn Monroe?
the hands left your eyes
and Christina said
no it's me
and she stood there
her eyes almost feeling you
as they moved over you
did you get my photo?
she asked
yes it's in my pocket
you said
don't show it to others
she said
I'll keep it under my pillow
you said
I sneaked it out
while no one was looking
this morning
she informed
I'll be for it
if they find out
she said
when was it taken?
you asked
last summer
she said
when I was 12
you don't look 12
in the photo
you said
do I look 13 now?
she asked
she grabbed your hand
and walked you across
the playing field
not waiting
for your reply
you wondered if Goldfinch
or Rolland were watching
while kicking ball
Goldfinch said girls
were an alien race
and best steered clear of
at best ignored
she stopped on the edge
of the playing field
where a small woods
formed the boundary of the field
and looking back
towards the school
some distance away
she whispered in your ear
you'll see just how 13 I am
in that woods one day
and you gave a sigh
noticing big puffy clouds
in a bright blue sky.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Receipe To Cook The Organ Meats!
Organ meats are laced and tasty,
let us make the dishes, not the pastry,
Cooking of brain, lungs, heart,
Liver, intestine and kidneys,
Soak them in wine for years,
Marinate them in fizzy beer,
Baking is too hot,
So we opt for smoke,
Smoke them throughout,
the Day and night,
Even in between,
Many the numbers,
Faster the organs get smoked,
When the eyes and nose water,
Use the mask and filters,
Weeds can be added,
For a quick fix and flavor,
When the sputum is thickened,
With the bending cough,
When the legs are swollen,
With tiring limps and thoughts,
We can go to the hospitals,
To make sure,
Whether we have cooked proper?
Once the certificate is issued,
That we are the chief chef of our body,
With perfectly imperfect organs,
We can stop marinating and smoking,
As the organs can mature on themselves,
and we can be displayed sooner or later,
to show our relatives and friends,
that we are the great cooks.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Harrowing Feeling
You harrow my feelings like a log,
It is on flames, and entering the sweetness.
Describe the clatter and clang of tools
And find me a world of dangerous smoke.
A vent provides the air to be sweet
And wholly delicious, like the pastry
And the food of chocolates.
Necromancy smiles at my belongings
As it tinily mentions my name and holdings.
The harrowing emotions I devise
Are innocent for the time being.
Mighty logs of fire are crafted to aid
The air with smoke, and heat has entered
Like hell has exhaled.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Women and Food
Women the color of cinnamon
Is the salts and stripes
They are made to preserve life.
Women the color of milk
Is the sweetest type
They are of the utmost strife.
Women the color of chocolate
Is made to devour
It is the tastiest wine
Women of any nature
Posses these qualities
Made from harmony
Made to harmonize
As one alone
Are more beautiful
Then the flour
Used in a bakery
Used to make
The finest pastry
The delicate art
In of it self
That is
Women and foods
poem by David Bailey
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
My mother's hands
My mother had thick, wide, hands,
callused from years of hard work.
I used to like to hold them,
feel their strength and warmth
Those were the hands that cared,
caressed and held her me close.
Those were the hands that scrubbed
and washed, cooked for us and nursed.
My mother had beautiful hands
and would paint her nails light pink.
They were warm, artistic hands
that could crochet well and knit.
Those were the hands that created,
made beautiful shawls and clothes.
Those were the hands that altered dresses
I wore ‘til they were old.
My mother had beautiful hands
that cooked and cleaned and scrubbed,
and within the things that those hands did
were bundles and bundles of love.
poem by Ruth Walters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The next to last pew
An old man was at church last Sunday
He sat in the next to last pew
I slid into the seat right next to him
And gave a him a friendly “hi-dee-do”
He gave me a nod with his time worn brow
Then swiveled his head all around
While his gaze sized up the parishioners
His ears seemed to soak up their sound
His sad gaze seemed to pick out each person
One by one, as he seemed to stare into their soul
To some he nodded, in an approving way
While to others his look was ice cold
I asked if he was a member of this church
I said I wasn’t familiar with him, was he new?
He smiled a soft smile and shook his head no
Said “I’m here most of the time…
here in this next to last pew”
I said “what do you think of our little church”
He rubbed his hands through his hair of silver grey
Looked deep in my eyes and gave a soft, sad sigh
And said “you may not like what I have to say”
He said “ Son, I can see into the soul of these people
And to you, what I say is on the level”
That Most are fools in the eyes of the Lord
The rest are pawns in the hands of the devil
I looked all around at my fellow church-goers
Of whom he spoke, I knew of more than a few
And when I turned back to allow “that could be so”
I was all alone in the next to last pew!
poem by David Whalen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!